Lost Boys - A Tale of the Dresdenverse
by griffyn612
Summary: For those seeking romantic myth, look to the pages of J.M. Barrie. For those who wish to sift fact from fiction, here is the truth behind the legend. A saga too painful to be mere fable, yet too fantastic to be real. The sad tale of the suffering wrought by a twisted creature, and the vengeance sought by a broken man. Here is the tragedy of the Captain, and the Pan.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

Disclaimer: While most of the _Peter Pan_ properties have passed into public domain, some remain copy-written to their perspective owners. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.

* * *

LOST BOYS

A Tale of the Dresdenverse

* * *

Chapter 01

As the sun creeps toward the distant horizon, its light journeying to other lands and places I know not, I am left with a profound sorrow at its passing. It has been a long day, but not so long that I would welcome its end. Nor do I wish an end to the life, both immense and brief, that must finally meets its conclusion this night. After everything, I will miss that solitary creature, that shadow that has been cast upon my own life from nearly the beginning.

As I wait, I recall how it all began. But beginnings are fragile things; what else could they be, given their nature? There is never truly a first line of a story, as each opening act is nothing but a continuation of that which came before. And while I might be inclined to some moderate hubris in describing my role in events, I am not so conceited as to believe myself relevant to the tale that began so long before me.

In truth, I alone remain, to witness this final end to the story. Perhaps it should have been another, someone more worthy, someone who was there from the beginning. But everyone else, save for the life coming to a close, has gone on to other places. And so it falls to me.

It seems an unlikely end, given how things unraveled so long ago. I must admit to some mild astonishment when I first realized that the story had indeed not concluded that night. I was not alone in believing the tale finished as the blackened waves of a distance realm closed upon them. We all believed it over and through, except for perhaps the girl.

Ah, the girl. How I pitied her. And yet, so many years later, it is her that has been proven right, and the rest of us so very wrong. Now, at the end of things, I see that in her madness, she might have grasped some truth that eluded us. The truth, revealed by her to the world, now unknowingly condemns that which she loved.

How she would hate me, here at the end.

The thought brings a chagrined smile to my lips; I recognize my hubris even now, believing that she would recall me. Neither she nor the others would know my face as it is now, and if asked this very night, each would blink with unfeigned ignorance at the mention of my name. A name unknown to any of the siblings, as my role in events came so very, very late.

I watch the sun creep across the sky, and wonder at the other parts unknown.

When did it truly begin? Even I do not know that, and I have known a great many of those involved. The girl certainly did not know, not now nor then. Even the two souls entwined at the heart of the story, two lives locked in eternal combat, would not know how things began. One was ignorant, as the tale started long before him; the other, oblivious, as was his nature. To ask him to recall the truth of the beginning would have been too much, for if he were capable of such a thing, then he would not be what he was. And none of it would have transpired.

The Queen might know, but only a fool would ask her for the story. Only a fool would ask her for anything.

No, the beginning is lost to time.

Instead, I will begin at my beginning, which was the beginning of the end.

* * *

Like the others, I was nothing more than a leaf on the winds of Destiny and Fate. The latter is at fault for this final part I must play. Surely it was Fate that made sure that my my eyes alight upon that tome of Mister Barrie's. But Fate is not solely to blame. It was a vain moment that saw me take up the man's book, wondering if my name might exist upon the pages of his story.

No. Not his story, in truth, for it was the girl's tale.

I admit I found myself curious, then and now, as to just how much of it was his fabrication, and how much was her misguided recollection of events. The truth lies well beyond either. Although, like beginnings, truths are fragile things. Having seen just how easily the mind can fool itself, or be fooled by others, I know that my memories are as suspect as the girl's. And yet, having no reason to believe myself compromised, I shall write my memoir, and believe it to be the way of things.

It is not meant to be a challenge to the tale given by Mister Barrie. I am content to let his story be the one that passes through the public's eye. Instead, I write what I know so that it might be recorded somewhere, should the truth ever be required. As vain as I may be, it would be a greater sin to assume this final ending is, in fact, an ending at all.

And so I will tell my story, and pass it down to my children, who in turn shall pass it to theirs. Should it ever see the light of day, it shall be met with incredulity and scorn, for it is not as pleasant a tale as that of Mister Barrie's. It is a sad thing, with no victors to celebrate, nor heroes to praise. In my heart, I wish the girl's story to be the truth of things. But I cannot allow myself to be swayed by her words, to forget that which I know.

What I know is simple and true.

Once upon a time, there was a boy. A boy that refused to grow. A boy that was filled with such enviable wonder and dreadful loathing. A boy that was, by the end of things, no boy at all.

And there was a man. A man given to hate. A man that was filled with righteous purpose and callous cruelty. A man that was, by the end of things, no man at all.

The girl's story tells you that much, although it lacks an understanding of either soul. That the man was cruel, I cannot and will not deny. Nor will I dispute that there was a certain attraction to the boy, a winsome longing of the heart that was somehow sated by his youthful charm, if only for a short time. But to declare one good and the other evil, in favor of either, is to do them both a disservice.

The simple truth is that they both, man and boy alike, lived the only way they knew how. Perhaps a better man could judge them for that, for I cannot.

Instead, I will offer what I know, and let history be the judge of the two.

Of the Captain, and the Pan.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 02

My inclusion in the tale began much earlier than I suspected, although still very late in the telling. It would be years before I would grasp the significance of my earliest memory, or how it would shape my future.

I was the second child, if only by minutes, to a loving set of parents that were undeserving of what was to befall them: my father, Elliot, an American businessman that had fallen desperately in love with a young Irish woman; and my mother, Imogen, a bright and brilliant girl that might have been anything in these modern times of ours, and yet in her time, was whole and content to be teacher, wife, and mother.

Of my brother, I can tell you little. He was my twin, our souls identical from head to toe, save for the shades of our parts. The first born, baring argent eyes that reflected the endless skies above, was given the name of Robin, as was befitting one born with a lock of scarlet hair so very much like our mother's. Myself, born dark of hair and eye, was given the name Lonán, but my mother would forever call me her little Blackbird.

We were born in November of 1841, in my mother's hometown of Derry. Our first home was a simple place, although we did not stay there long enough for me to recall it. Years later I would return to Derry, once I understood the nature of my past, to look upon the place where it all began. But as for my earliest years, I recalled nothing, save for the explosion of gilded colour that would change all of our lives for the worse.

It was upon the Hallows Eve just before our fourth birthday that we found ourselves attending a celebration. Fiery and jubilant as ever, it was my brother Robin that led me into the crowd. It took nothing but an inattentive moment, a kiss shared between two lovers, to offer us the opportunity to escape our parents' watchful eyes. We heard our mother call out after us, as well as our father's calm reassurances to her as he set out to retrieve us. But his aged legs, quite obviously suffering after a long twenty-eight years of use, were no match for our young and vigorous strides. Ducking and diving, we made our way through the forest of people, all of whom had gathered together to watch the fireworks.

Although my memory of Derry is a blur of bubbling kisses and unbridled affection, it is that dark night that I recall clearly. I dream of it sometimes, the recollection as clear as glass, as my brother Robin broke through the crowd and ran across the field. His laugh was as gay as his countenance, bopping and rolling through the meadow, beyond the barrier erected to keep the citizenry at bay.

When I dream of it, I imagine a moment where I pause, to wait for our father to catch me. To stop me from preceding on after Robin. To prevent everything before it began.

But no matter how desperately I cling to that moment, it must eventually pass. And then I am running after the scarlet-haired boy, moving closer to the water as we dance joyously beneath the explosions of colour overhead.

I do not know what caused the firework to fail as it did. Nor do I recall the moment before it landed a mere yard from me, exploding into a shower of golden sparks. The doctors and surgeons assured my parents that my memory loss was absolute; that I had no recollection of the trauma. But no matter their words, I remember the burst of light, the harsh, metallic odor of the burning materials as the explosive detonated.

I remember the pain, so acute, so widespread. The searing agony, as thousands upon thousands of fiery cinders scorched my skin and clothing. I remember wailing as I lay upon the ground, uncomprehending of what had transpired, only knowing that it hurt so very much. And I remember my brother reaching me first, his terrified cries joining mine so long before our father arrived.

He was there for me in that moment. I will never forget that. Not yet four, my brother rushed to my side, even as the explosive spat more furious embers beside me. He was fearless, my Robin. And for that, I could never blame him for leading me away. Even now, a lifetime gone, knowing everything that would befall us after that accursed night, I cannot blame him for his part.

I blame myself, for failing him. But that was later.

In that moment, I was sure my world had ended. But like so many of our childhood fears, the trauma would prove bearable; it is the things that go unseen, unnoticed until they've taken root deep inside, that haunt us through our lives.

By the morning, most of my pain had faded. My flesh remained pock-marked where the burning ashes had struck, although much of that would heal in time. By the dawn, I was healthy and whole, save for my eyes.

The doctors in Derry did what they could, but they could not lessen the burning sensation that lingered within the windows to my soul. At first I was blinded, my vision nothing more than blurs of dark gold. They warned that the affect might be permanent; that the finer materials in the explosive had lodged themselves too deep. Their tools were not so delicate as to remove the bits that smoldered within.

Our mother and father refused to accept such a fate for me. Desperate to prevent my sight from failing, they searched far and wide for anyone that would offer hope. In time, they came to learn of the surgeons at the royal chartered hospital in London. If any could help, it would be they.

And so it was that, in the early parts of 1846, my family departed Derry. I recall being ashamed at the thought that I had caused my parents to leave their home. Their assurances that I was not at fault were little comfort. Later it would seem a blessing, as we were some of the first to leave at the onset of the Great Hunger. When the others eventually fled Ireland, to relocate due to the Blight that spread across the land, we were already established in London, our parents having found work before the flood of immigrants arrived.

The surgeons in London could do little more than those in Derry. But as my vision slowly returned, my parents accepted it as a sign that they had done the right thing for me. By our fifth birthday, my sight was as it ever had been, if not better. Our mother believed me blessed, her little Blackbird that could see as well at night as he did during the day. Such was an exaggeration, as I could see but little in the dark. But my mother would claim to see the sparks in my eyes as we walked through Kensington Gardens at dusk.

In fact, there was some truth to that. After the incident, many would claim to see bright motes within my dark eyes. And while bewitching in nature, the doctors assured us that it was simply the remnants of the explosives, the small particles of which would always remain with me.

Alas, the truth is a fragile thing. And while the doctors were not entirely wrong in their diagnosis, they were not entirely correct.

Still, to my family, it was a joyous time. Spared the dark fate of the blind, I spent my next few years happy with my brother and our parents. While I could speak no ill of Derry, for I did not know it well enough to love it or loath it, I can say with some confidence that London was the jewel of the world in that time. And the four of us reveled in it, and all the wonders it contained.

It would be four years before it ended. Four years of squealing tickles and tinkling laughter, of exuberant singing and raucous play.

And then came the Pan.

* * *

A child of Ireland, our mother was no stranger to tales of the fantastic and the magical. She would whisper them to us each night before bed, and nearing our ninth birthday, my brother and I quite believed them. Everyone did in that time. The gardens were places of wonder, and the other children would tell us the stories of the faeries that lived in the flowering woods.

And yet, for all that my glittering eyes had seen, I had never seen a creature the likes of which they described. Now, years later, I doubt they had either. But they believed they had, and we believed them in turn. I perhaps less so than my brother, who was fervent in his desire to sight a dew drop fairy or flowering pixie. But if I was less enthused, it was only by the slimmest of margins.

And so it was, on that fateful night, that my brother was the first to awaken at the tapping at the window.

"Lonán!" came the excited whisper that pierced my last pleasant dreams. There was an urgency, a wonder to my brother's tone that brought me from a deep slumber in an instant. As I blinked away the dark and the drowsiness, I heard his voice gain in pitch, if not in volume. "Brother, he's here!"

In those first moments I confess that I did not recognize the urgency of the situation. My mind, so recently evicted from its slumber, was slow and doltish. Neither his words nor his tone were enough to jar my sleep-addled thoughts. They drifted carelessly, wondering at the hour, which was surely too late or too early, for the only light to see by was that of the moon shining in from our windows. That meager illumination shone upon the inner wall and door, the slotted pattern of the window panes leaning crookedly like the branches of a bowed tree.

But as I blinked away my dreary thoughts, the pale shine did shift, as a shadow drifted across the wall.

At once I was awake, my breath coming fast and high as the silhouette leaned first one way and then the next. It was a familiar shape, if somewhat vague and hard to place at first. As my wide eyes blinked away the night, I recognized it as the curving form of a human head, sitting atop a set of slim, narrow shoulders.

That my first inclination was to fear is completely understandable, given that our room was upon the second floor, a good number of feet from the cobbled street below. Surely I must be mistaken; the idea that someone could have climbed the outer wall, to light upon our windowsill, was as wild and absurd as any I could imagine.

And still, as I turned to look past my brother's bed and onward to the windows, my eyes grew wide and fearful. As impossible as it seemed, there was indeed a figure crouched there, its dark form lean and somehow wild as it perched upon the ledge.

A lancing terror did spread through me then, as I watched the figure's slim fingers stroke lovingly at the glass, its broken and jagged nails raking lightly across the pebbled surface. I was too far away to know then that its fingernails were worn and coarse, but I could hear the affect they had on the glass, as they did cause a harsh and echoing screech to sound across the room. It was the sound of bare branches stroking with the wind, and yet entirely too slow, and entirely too purposeful.

The sound did grate upon my nerves, the hairs across my body rising in piqued alarm as the sense of danger grew within me. I shivered beneath my sheets, as if a non-existent wind had blown across my skin — no, through the very pores of my flesh — to whisk across my bones like an arctic gale. I wondered at another sound, until I realized that it was that of my own teeth, chattering sharply as my body shook in near panic. A cold sweat had overcome me, as I watched the lean, crouching figure shift in the darkness, its features cast in shadow.

And as its fingers finally grew still, they slowly did tap, a smooth cadence made bleak by the cragged rasping of its nails. Thu- _thum_ thu- _thump_. Thu- _thum_ thu- _thump_.

"Brother!" my dear Robin did cry softly, his covers kicked back as he knelt upon his bed, looking in wonder at the creature at our window. "It is the Pan! The Pan of the Gardens!"

My mouth opened to reply, but my words were lost in my terror. The shadowed head did tilt, back and forth with abrupt and violent speed, as if looking upon the two of us with great and earnest interest, all while its body remained deathly still, save for the gentle scraping at the glass. I could not tear my gaze from it, the inescapable sense of peril growing within me as I felt its darkened eyes fix upon me.

With my limbs taut and trembling, I found I could do nothing as Robin stumbled gleefully out of his bed, his pale night clothes a blur in the moonlight as he scrambled for the window. The gaze of the thing shifted to him, its head swiveling like a bird's, as Robin came to a halt before it, mere inches and glass the only thing separating the two.

"He is beautiful, brother!" Robin exclaimed, his voice bubbling over with joy and merriment. It was as if it were Christmas morning, and he had stumbled down the stairs to find the hollow beneath a well-laden tree had been stuffed full of presents and toys. As if his every hope had been fulfilled, while new desires he'd never imagined were realized as quickly as they were brought forth from the depths of his dreams. "The stories were true! Oh, how beautiful he is, brother!"

Caught up in Robin's rapt attention, the creature did fix its gaze upon him, my own presence forgotten. I watched as it splayed its hand across the window, pressing firmly against the glass, as if it might be able to pass through the surface with nothing more than a thought.

My brother, seeing the motion, mirrored him, pressing his own hand to the glass. A gay giggle rippled up from his throat as the crouched form moved, shifting about, drawing Robin with it as he mirrored its actions. It was almost playful, and for just a second, I thought perhaps I was wrong about the nature of the creature. Perhaps it meant us no harm, and was nothing more than a fanciful and curious thing that wanted to look upon us for a moment, before continuing on with its nightly journey across the cityscape.

But no. My hope was lost as quickly as it came, as the the creature did gesture toward the latch, its long, nimble fingers probing at that which it could not reach.

My brother, caught in its spell, laughed merrily as he realized what the creature wanted. It was with joy that he did turn the small iron lock, the clasp snickering open with a saddened sigh.

And then there was nothing between them, as the dead wind did gust, pulling open the windows with a banging clatter.

How the creature remained on the ledge, I could not know. Surely the motion of the hinged panes, almost as tall as a boy, should have knocked him away as they surged open. I blinked at the sight of the shadowed form, rocking backwards in rhythm with the wind, as if it were as light as the air itself. And when the panes did clack and bang against the outside of the house, the creature was still there, still perched easily upon the windowsill.

"I found you," a voice whispered, and my head swooned at the sound of it. I did not realize I was smiling until I felt the tightness of my cheeks. Joy and happiness washed over me at that melodic voice, that beautiful croon that was at once both soft and strong, young and sure. "I have found you, my Twins."

"Oh, you have, you have!" Robin squealed, unable to look away. "You are the Pan, are you not? The one from Kensington Gardens?"

At that the crouching figure did blur into motion, the suddenness of its movement breaking the spell which its voice had woven in my mind. The fear returned as I saw it stand upright upon the sill, its slight weight braced by nothing more than the strength of its toes. The slim form thrust its breast out, its clenched hands falling to its sides as it struck a pose of infinite pride. "I am! I am at that!" it crowed loudly, proudly, although it could not have said it at anything more than a whisper.

The spell tugged at my heart a second time, the conflicting emotions of joy and fear warring within me. Just to hear it was magical. Its voice declared convincingly that it was no creature at all; it was a boy, like me and my brother, a magical boy that had called to our hearts with a sense of rightness that only the young could recognize.

Its voice was friendly and pleasant, but still my heart spasmed with fear. Perhaps it was a fear of the impossible, my worldly nine years assuring me that no-one could stand upon the ledge like this creature did, nor could they have crawled and climbed their way up the sheer wall face. Perhaps it was a fear of the unknown, a voice of reason telling me that the stories were just those; stories, nothing more than fictions to put our minds at rest in time for bed. There were no faeries, no pixies, no creatures of wonder drifting through the night.

Or perhaps its was the shadowed countenance, the shrouded features of his face and body. The moonlight was bright that evening, and I could make out every last freckle upon Robin's face as he stared at the creature in wonder. Even with its back to the moon, I should have been able to see something of the thing's face, some glimmer of its features.

But the shadows were thick, almost viscously so, and so the creature did remain dark to my eyes.

My brother Robin, however, had no difficulty in seeing the thing.

"Have you come to take us?" he cried, his body bobbing with excitement. "Are we to go on an adventure with you?" Because all of the stories we'd heard started thusly. An adventure started in moonlight, a journey of wonder that would linger in our memories throughout our lives, even if the details did fade with time.

"I have!" it replied wonderfully, filling my heart with hope again. "I must have my Twins! How can I play without them?!"

"Oh, brother!" Robin cried softly, turning for the first time to look away from the creature. "Can you believe it? The stories are true, we always knew it!"

"Yes," I replied, softly, weakly, my voice trembling with both cheer and angst. "Of course they are, dear brother. But come, we must tell our parents if we are to go."

At my words, the creature on the sill did move, a violent shock of motion that, for all its intensity, left it where it had started. As if it had wanted to come closer, and yet for some reason had not. But I could feel that its gaze had shifted, its attention turning toward me. I could feel it, its eyes boring down upon mine, a glint of something in the dark recesses of its face. "No," it said simply, commandingly.

"He's right," my brother said, of the creature and not I. "We will not tarry long; an adventure by moonlight, brother, that is all. Surely they need not know of such a thing. The adults never believe, after all."

"Mother believes," I reminded him, my voice somehow remaining calm as I pulled myself from beneath my covers. "Think of how disappointed she would be, if we were to go on such an adventure without telling her."

Again the figure spasmed, this time seemingly at the first word that broached my lips. "No," it hissed, some of its beauty fading as it grew displeased at my resistance to its charms. It was not an angry voice, so much as a reproachful one; this creature was not one used to defiance. "No mothers. Never a mother."

There was something to its voice, the way it spoke, when it said that certain word. I did not recognize it then, for I was young, and inexperienced. I had not yet heard of loathing, and could not yet imagine what it might sound like. If I had, I would have recognized it for what it was. "No, brother, we must tell her. Come with me. It will take but a minute, and then we will be on our way."

I held my hand out to Robin, who nodded as he grinned. "Yes, of course." He turned back to the creature, his hands clasping together in his excitement. "We will be just a moment, and then we can go!"

Once more the figure shifted, seeming furious as my brother ran to me, reaching for my extended arm. When his hand clasped mine, I knew that we would be alright. Together, we would be just fine. Together, we would see our parents, telling them of this visitor in the night, and we would hear what they had to say. I did not trust my mind in that moment, nor that of my brother. I could not say exactly what drove me to caution, trying to distance us from the thing on the ledge.

Nor could I explain the growing sense of fear as the creature crouched on the sill, longingly calling out after us, "Do not leave me," as we made our way to the door.

Nor could I explain resounding sense of dread that coursed through me as my brother replied carelessly, "Of course, come with us!"

My breath caught in my throat as a sensation washed over me. As if some great dam had broken, unleashing the dark tide it had held at bay. I did not, _could_ not, understand the effect my brother's words had on the creature. And yet I knew, somehow, that it was entirely the wrong thing to say.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 03

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I looked back, my body shivering once more as I turned toward the window, and the creature that stood on the sill.

It moved slowly, standing upright as it looked down upon us. As it moved, so too did its shadow. The dark that had disguised its features fell away, sliding into the room like a silken blanket, revealing its face.

I do not know what my brother saw when he looked upon the thing. He called it beautiful, and perhaps it was. In its way.

But it was also incredibly, horribly terrifying.

At first, it looked like a boy. Perhaps our age, perhaps older. Perhaps younger, as its features seemed to shift almost as often as its emotions. Its skin was pale; not sickly so, but instead a youthful paleness that was fresh and smooth and inhuman in its perfection. Its hair was wild and tawny, except for when it wasn't, at which time it was whatever it wanted to be. Leaves were caught up in it, as if they'd alighted carelessly upon its head and decided they belonged there, rather than anywhere else in all of creation.

Its features were stark and smooth, whichever it so wished at the time. Its face could be that of a cherub baby, full and bright and cheery, or it could be that of a fresh corpse, thin and gaunt and sallow. Its eyes were no more fixed in color than its hair; I would learn later that its down would often enough echo the season, whereas its eyes would shift like liquid crystal, mirroring its mood.

In that moment, as I tried to lead my brother to safety, its eyes were the furious oranges and reds of an autumn sunset, burning its last light away on the distant horizon as the darkness set itself upon the world.

Of course, if that were all there had been to it, it would have been beautiful and terrible. But there was more, always more to that creature. More than the eye could catch in a lifetime, much less a moment.

Its ears were sharp and pointed, and leaning to and fro as its interest was peeked. When angry, they would set back like a dog's at warning; when happy, they would almost stand up straight, like a hare on Easter Morning. It could control them no better than it could the colors of its eyes, both slaves to the emotions of the moment.

More fixed in their countenance were its horns. Tiny, blunt little knobs adorned the corners of its forehead. As small as a youthful goat's, they were no less majestic than the rest of the creature, catching the light whenever it was present, as if made to draw the eye. I knew later that others could not see them, and yet were just as helplessly drawn to looking upon the thing as I.

The rest of it was more or less human, except for the rare moments when it wasn't. As it stood there, it was as tall as a boy of nine. In time, I would see it both younger and older, its age as inconsistent as its temperament. Do not blame Mister Barrie or the girl for their inability to put an age to the creature, for such a thing was impossible. It was, as it was in almost every aspect of its life, as it wished to be.

But never old. Never that.

Both beautiful and terrible, the creature was quite obviously not human. How anyone could think so was beyond me, and yet my brother seemed incapable of seeing it for what it was. I saw his youthful eyes shining with joy as he looked up the thing, as if it were a long lost friend it had never met. I could not explain at the time why I was not caught up in the same urgent yearning to please it. All I knew was that we must hurry to escape it, for to do anything else was to invite doom.

While it might seem as if my inspection of the creature was long and studious, it was in fact nothing more than a frozen moment in time. A glimpse, a glance, to take in the inhuman nature of it, and then I was turning away, reaching for the door. My hand grasped at the knob even as I pulled my brother along, his grinning attention behind us as he stumbled backwards with me.

I had just managed to turn the handle, pulling the door open a scant few inches, when the creature's shadow whisked between our feet to roll up onto the flat wooden surface.

I felt the knob pulled from my fingers as the door slammed shut with a certain finality. Feeling a sense of desperation growing within me, I reached again for the handle, but instead flinched back as the shadow of the thing loomed up before us, growing taller than the shadow of a boy ever could.

"Brother!" Robin exclaimed happily, looking backward, and so failing to notice that the creature's pall had trapped us within the room. "Isn't he wonderful?"

I turned back to the creature then, in time to see it hop down from the windowsill. There was something about the way it moved, something about its legs, that defied logic. It hurt my eyes to see it, as if my mind were somehow struggling to make sense of what it witnessed. Surely its legs moved as a human's would, and yet I could not fight the growing sense that its knees bent backwards rather than forwards.

"Robin, we must—" I began, only to let my words fade into a startled yelp as the shadow moved again, something cold slithering over my skin as it shifted forward. I could just make out the vague form of its dark fingers as it crawled over me, my flesh rising at the feel of its chilly tendrils as they crept along my limbs. I screamed then, a harsh wail of fear escaping my lips as shadowed hands climbed up my neck, the dark effigy of the creature's broken nails scraping across my skin like they had the window.

I ran, retreating backwards, but the shadow clung to me like a dark fog, swirling in my wake and rolling over me. I scraped at it, as if it were something tangible I could fling from me, but my fingers felt nothing but the cold. My body trembled as it probed at me, this living darkness that would not yield, even to the light of the moon.

"Robin!" I cried, helpless as it pressed me to the wall. I flailed at it, my hands passing through the dark gloom that hung in the air before me. As formless as any shadow, it was somehow strong enough to hold me, and I realized with a certain terror that I could not escape its grasp.

My eyes shifted toward my brother, only to find him dancing heartily in the arms of the creature.

"And we shall have great adventures!" I heard the thing say, its eyes wide and merry as it smiled at Robin. "Wait until you meet the other Boys; they will be like brothers to you!"

"I cannot wait!" Robin replied, his joyous expression mirrored on the face of the creature. "Oh, how long have I yearned for an adventure!"

The two spun about in obvious glee, oblivious to my predicament. I was horrified to see how the creature deceived my brother so thoroughly, pretending to be his friend. It wasn't until later that I realized the thing was not feigning its excitement; it did not lie, for it was truly as happy as it appeared. Such was the way of it, living in the moment, living true to its nature.

As I watched them, I felt a tugging at my wrists. The dark gloom before me loomed up, pulling at me. I resisted, straining to keep away from the thing. I knew not what it wanted; surely it sought to tear me apart for seeking my escape. Only in one last moment did I realize what its rocking motion implied. I blinked at it, my fear somewhat fading, as its intention became clear.

The shadow did not want to hurt me.

It wanted to dance with me.

I felt my breath escape me, as I understood the creature in that moment. It did not wish us harm, for wishing harm was beyond it. It simply wanted _us_. For what, I was not sure. But I knew that it longed to take us with it, to have us set out under the moonlight, to see the world as we had never seen it before. It wanted to lead us to a world of wonder.

And despite my terror, for a moment I considered that I might let it.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

Even as I felt the cold shadow tugging at me, the door to our room crashed open. The sound of it startled all four us, the shadow included, and we all turned as one to the sight of our father standing in the doorway.

"What is this?" he cried, alarmed to find us not only out of bed, but dancing about. At first I thought he might only see Robin and I; they say that adults cannot see the faeries and the pixies because they do not believe. And if ever there was a father that did not believe, it was ours.

But it took only a moment for our father's gaze to fix on the creature, his eyes widening in what must have been a mirror to my own fear. "Who— what—" he stammered, clearly at a loss to understand what he was seeing.

I found that I could not speak, could not explain what had happened. My fear of the creature had returned upon seeing my father's own, and as the shadow clutching at me grew colder still. I gasped, trying to find the words, even as a second gasp sounded behind my father. It announced the arrival of our mother, a wild tumble of fiery hair cascading across one shoulder as she stared at the creature.

Her eyes were like saucers in the moonlight as she gazed upon him, her body rocking wistfully as one hand flew to her throat.

" _You!_ "

I often wonder at her reaction; at what she meant with that one word. How I wish I could ask her about it. I think my father would have liked to have known as well.

Alas, the mystery remains. As they so often do.

A long, tense moment passed as we stood there, as odd a tableau as there has ever been. The creature's gaze had landed upon my father, their stormy eyes mirroring one another as they recognized a threat. Perhaps if it had ended there, things might have gone differently. If they'd looked upon each other and retreated, letting the moment pass.

But then the creature's eyes fell upon my mother.

And they were furious.

"NO!" it screamed, pulling away from our parents in a flash. It kept its grip on Robin, who looked somewhat dazed, caught between a dream and reality. "Not a mother! They cannot be trusted!"

"Let him go!" my father roared, surging forward at the same moment my mother swooned, crying, "Not them!"

At once the shadow was gone, flashing away from me in a startling blur of motion that left me numb. It was hard to track, the darkness within a dark room. But my eyes shifted with it, watching as it crashed into my father with a furious violence that I had not known in my few years, save for the sputtering brilliance of a stray golden rocket.

I could not describe their exchange as a fight, for it was not that. To imply such would be a disservice to the gloomy figure, which was far more than my father could ever have hoped to manage on his own. I watched as it flung him about, crashing into a dresser that shattered upon impact. I heard my father scream in pain, and then the shadow flung him elsewhere, treating a grown man as if he were nothing more than a ragged doll.

"Stop!" I screamed. "Don't hurt him!"

Shrugging off my shock, I surged forward, intent on protecting my family. Whatever the creature's cause, it was in that moment my enemy. I reached for the shadow as it twisted about, but my hands only found empty air.

My attack did little, other than to cause a mild alarm in the dull shade of the creature. I think my response angered it, as its gentle but insistent touch from before was replaced with an angry thrust that sent me sprawling across the room. Its shadowed was an icy cold, one that seemed to leave frost on my flesh. I crashed into the wall with violent force, before falling helplessly to the floor, my arm throbbing where I had landed upon it.

The desperate clamor had at least broken through the enchantment around my brother. I saw Robin grow worried, as if realizing for the first time that something was indeed amiss. He tried to break free from the creature, but found himself locked in an unbreakable embrace.

"You must join us!" the creatures hissed, its voice still melodic and wondrous in its fury. "Both of you!"

"No!" Robin cried. "No, we cannot! My father—"

"No parents!" the creature bellowed, its features growing stark as it raged. A child's face could never display the level of frustration it felt then, and so it became older, although not too old. "Never parents! They don't belong!"

"Let me go!" Robin shouted, grabbing at the creature's wrist. "I want to go!"

"And go we shall!" the creature cried, its face growing younger as it grew excited. "On great adventures! There are pirates, and natives, and all sorts of creatures!"

"No!" Robin insisted, pleading, as tears ran down his face. For we were only nine, and this was a terrible thing to have happen to you at such an age.

"Yes! You must!" the creature insisted. "Both of you must come! My Twins!"

As it spoke, the thing's hand moved, gesturing at my brother. The air glittered, wavering as if a summer heat rippled through it, but without any warmth. As if reality itself bent and twisted for a moment, leaving my brother awash in the creature's strange power.

Despite his terror, I saw Robin's face slacken, his body slump, as if all of his cares were lost in a moment. The creature seized upon that moment, taking my brother in his arms, before shifting closer to the window.

And as they went, the shadow returned for me, its cold broken fingernails skittering up my legs as it sought purchase upon my flesh.

I screamed, once again trying futilely to break free. My efforts were no more successful that time as they had been the first. I heard my father trying to rise, moving groggily from where his head had hit the wall. Even delirious with pain, he reacted to my cry for help. But what could he do against such a thing? The shadow was only real when it wished to be, and neither of us could do anything to stop it.

So it was that I found myself being dragged across the floor of our bedroom, the dark gloomy shade drawing me closer to the window, when my mother burst forward.

I had not thought of her since the struggle had begun. I suppose I assumed she might have fainted, although she was hardly the type to do so. Still, at best I thought her incapacitated by fear, as I had been upon first seeing the creature. To this day, I regret not giving her the credit due.

As I was drawn toward the window, my night clothes twisting around me as the shadow dragged me across the floor, my mother ran fearlessly forward. A cry escaped her lips, the furious howl only a mother can make when shielding her young. She brought her arms around, a curious darkness swirling through the air as she swung at the shadow gripping me.

To my surprise, the shadow released me, as a silent howl erupted from its gloomy lips.

It was a sound echoed by the creature, who bent its back and crowed in agony as the strange scent of burning leaves reached my nostrils. The firm shadow gripping me grew wispy under my mother's assault, before retreating back toward the creature near the window.

I wondered at her success, surprised that she had succeeded where my father and I had failed. Why she had thought to retrieve a fire poker from downstairs, I could not guess. Although as I saw her swing the slim iron rod around at the creature, a vague memory from the stories bubbled up to the surface of my thoughts, of iron and faeries and their loathing for one another.

"Let him go!" my mother cried, her lovely accent thickening in her fury. She swung the iron poker with surprising accuracy, the shaft of metal slicing down through the air between Robin and the creature. To avoid the touch of the baleful metal, the thing released my brother, retreating from her attack as if she bore a blazing torch that threatened to consume it.

Up the wall it ran, its steps springing and light as my mother's repeated attacks whirled behind it, always just missing. The creature crowed again and again, its eyes taking on a fiery light as its skin tightened across the sharp bones of its face, aging with each passing moment. It tumbled and twirled, somersaulting upon the ceiling as if gravity were of no concern to it. Always staying out of reach, but in turn never finding a moment to retaliate.

On and on the two went, stumbling and tumbling about the room, as the rest of us dazedly watched.

And then, without so much as a warning, it ended.

My mother blinked in surprise at the touch of the shadow, forgotten in her pursuit of the creature. Her eyes fixed on me as the dark gloom pulled her backwards, her lips moving to say I know not what. The iron poker tumbled from her grasp as she fell backward at the wall, her knees buckling at the sill.

And then she was gone.

Forever.

A wail went up then, a woe-some cry that I did not recognize as my own until it was echoed by my father's. Our pain, given voice as we realized what had happened, was mocked by the crowing call of the creature, standing straight down from the ceiling as if it were the floor, its fists on its hips again as it puffed out its chest. The creature was victorious, prideful and joyous, as our mother fell to the pavement below. I could see the creature dancing on the ceiling, gleeful in its victory, as the shadow danced below it. The two were something from a fable, two great warriors that had vanquished some great evil deserving of its fate. As if they had slain some horrible dragon, rather than the woman that had given me birth.

I hated it then.

I hated it in a way that I could not comprehend. If I could have seen my face in a mirror, I would have recognized that loathing look the creature had cast toward my mother, for I now felt it for the thing.

But despite my hatred, I could not move.

It was then, in that moment, that I failed my brother.

Despite the danger still lurking, I could not move. I could not move as it skipped across the ceiling and then down to the floor. I could not move as it took up my brother, still dazed and lost under its power, slinging him over its shoulder like a bag of grain. I could not move as the shadow wrapped itself around me, its cold touch not so cold as the feeling in my heart.

There was nothing I could do as the creature stepped to the window, alighting upon the ledge with a gentle leap. The moonlight shone down on it from above, causing the creature's horns to glint in the night as it looked toward the distant stars. It paused for a moment, as if looking for the right one. I watched it, even as the shadow lifted me from the floor, shrugging me over its shoulder just as the creature had done with Robin.

And then, the creature's knees bent — and I saw it this time, surely bending backwards as knees don't often do — before springing into the air.

It was impossible, but so was all of it. An impossible creature, stolen into our room in the dead of night. An impossible shadow trailing after it, pulling me out the window as if it too were bounding into the sky. A pair of brothers, a set of Twins, off on some journey that we no longer longed for, an adventure that had already ended in our despair before it had even begun. Helpless against the creature that would steal us from our lives.

I felt the cold air on my face as we went out the window, upside down as if mirroring the upright leap of the creature. I heard his crowing cry up above, even as the world twisted around, leaving me looking down at the pavement below.

At my mother, below.

There was a soft swooshing sound then, somewhat recently familiar. I did not see what caused it, for I only had eyes for the twisted locks of scarlet far below. The sound was succeeded by another silent cry, one that was once again echoed by a howling pain from some great distance.

And then the cold touch of the shadow was gone, and I was tumbling down, down.

A hand grasped at me, grabbing at my night clothes. I heard a tearing sound, and my descent continued. Then came another grasping hand, slowing my descent to allow the first to take a firmer hold. The moment was an eternity, as I dangled there in the night. But then the moment passed, as the sound of a discarded iron poker clattering upon the cobbles resounded against the walls.

I hung there for a lifetime, staring down, until my father pulled me back up through the window, holding me close. He rocked with me in his arms, clutching me tightly, there in the shadows beneath the sill, under the bright moon. There wasn't much to see, but there needn't have been. The world could have traipsed passed our window, a band could have paraded into the room, and I would not have seen nor heard it.

The only thing I could hear, for quite some time, was the howling crow of the creature that had taken my brother.

The only thing I could see, for quite some time, were the wet cobbles below, and the twisted locks of scarlet strewn across them.


End file.
